the images&words, they haunt me.

Do you remember that night

we lay flat on our backs,

the dry, dead grass crinkling against

our bare, browned skin and

you lifted my heavy hand,

bending my plump fingers

to-and-fro, like you were testing

how far they could stretch

and I watched the tips never trying

to resist you because that’s how we

were, always my words crashing

into your heart but you

never listened and I never felt

the pressure of your lips hard against

mine as I gasped to get away,

well, do you?

rhythm of the line.

foolish to think, foolish

to feel this way. but
it's heavy on my chest, 
wrought-iron wrapped
around my ribs. strings 
of words like: 

sun-burnt clichés, I said

you inspire me, and

you believed it, kept it,

locked it tight

in your fist. but you

could have been anyone.

you said we were
just always, always 
and never. but what
boils beneath, like
blood below the skin so
thin. I know you think

I'm a fool.

Poetry I workshop exercise #3: Erotic poem

Those sleepless nights when I’ve left the window open,

the chirping crickets, the soundtrack to my thoughts.

I imagine what her soft dancer’s legs must feel like rubbing against yours.

You could never resist sideways glances at

Long, silk smooth legs of passing spring-time women,

you thought I never noticed.

Four a.m. settles in and the breeze dries the tears,

cold against my cheeks.

The picture I have painted is vivid in my mind of

your fingertips traveling along the contours of her back,

goose bumps rising on her skin in response to the

slight pressure of your touch.

It isn’t just my imagination.

I play this game of images not to torture myself,

but to remember why I left.

To remember that night I sat on your bed,

tracing the circular scar on my thigh,

and you, with wicked intentions, you said to me

another girl caught your eye.

Now when I start to miss your lips,

I see them whispering fantasies in her ear,

strings of crimson words trickling down her spine,

your bodies locked together, tangled in the sheets.

And I remember that I do not miss being her,

your mistress veiled behind the curtains.

Poetry I workshop exercise #2: Family Poem

Proverbs

Father sits across from me at the kitchen table,

his chin rests on his round fist,

small, black eyes roam the mahogany surface.

His index finger scribbles invisible ink that I cannot read,

could never read.

He looks up at me with arched eyebrows,

“I have something for you.”

Father brings back a white sheet of paper,

I stare at the black lines, the boxy shapes.

“Han Mun,” he explains,

“Proverbs,” he mutters.

I decipher the jumbled English translations:

The well where the taste of water is good dries first.

Sweet swallows. Bitter spits out.

Perhaps I am too ignorant to understand,

or perhaps these words are too foreign to my American ears.

I scratch at the white paper, frustrated by these

strange characters that tell stories of my entire culture.

But, father, you never taught me to read the strokes of your pen,

how can I learn these ancient sayings?

I sit at the table, tracing the lines, again and again.

“Someday, your children will learn them for you.” 

the months of us.

November. [is this love]
We saw one another everyday.
Four a.m. came too quickly, four a.m. was always when the conversation blurred, when the storytelling ended.
Autumn was spent in a Cadillac, hot breath painting steam on the glass. That question continuously unanswered, "do you love me yet?" I saw the smirk on his face before turning away from him. I couldn't say for sure. I couldn't let myself get away with it, with him.

December. [guilt]
I felt the jealousy swell, waves before crashing against the shore. I waited, pretending to watch T.V., while he locked himself in the bathroom, cell phone pressed against his ear. There, he played the role of the boyfriend-in-a-four-year-relationship, asking her how her day was, what did she have for dinner, will she visit her mother? My ears stopped straining to listen when the door unlocked, he stepped out, drifted over to me and placed firm hands on my thighs. The jealousy ebbed, undulated -- underneath the pressure of his fingertips, subsided. I've made this choice. It wasn't about her, I thought, it was about us.

January. [fades]
I never believed in ultimatums. I couldn't do that to him, but how long could we last? The guilt triumphed, and I told him to choose, to make a decision -- it was either me or her. The next day I took it back, said, begged, pleaded for him not to choose. The fear of losing us greater than anything else.
His lectures were a constant, I had to make changes in my life. I was wasting away the days, I only knew him. I needed to find a job, needed to apply to school, needed to find substance. Or perhaps, just a distraction from the lies.

February. [hallmark for lovers]
I didn't ask him to be my valentine; we hadn't even talked about it. I didn't -- and still don't -- believe in preserving one day dedicated to a significant other. Shouldn't all days be that way? But February 14th had come too quickly for us. He had his valentine: her, who kept his heart. I remember asking: "How is it possible for you to love two people at once?" I hadn't realized then (foolish girl) that he wasn't in love with me. Even though he ritualistically repeated how much he was, in fact, in love with me. He didn't mean it. If he had meant it, he wouldn't have been with her, and with me.